Matching Underwear

Tony looked at George across the faultlessly shiny polished wood table and grinned discreetly.

They were both down to their trousers, having lost their blazers, ties, shirts, shoes and socks in a particularly close fought card game. A game that had been going on ever since they had gotten drunk at breakfast. It was 11.00am and the high-jinks showed no sign of abaiting. George had suggested a game of 'cometball' - a combination of swingball and metholated spirits - once they had finished the current contest.

The oval office was empty and silent, barr the click and whirr of the ever present security camera's.

So far they had been toe to toe; winning a round each without fail. But now Tony was sensing victory. His glass was fuller than George's, despite the level playing field. That meant he was sharper and quicker.

George picked a card from his pile and put it down. Tony picked one from his and saw his chance almost instantaneously, despite his almost total inebriation.

"Snap!" he yelled, slamming the po-faced king hard on the table.

"Hot damn it!" George sighed. He stood up slowly and dropped his trousers.

Tony raised an eyebrow as he regarded his opposite numbers undercarriage. The oddly coloured banana's and the unflattering cut of the below par fabric sparked the flint of recognition somewhere in the depths of the British statesmen's colossal intellect.

"Well, stone me!"...